


tell me, can i be your honey?

by ashley-amelie (kitana)



Series: what comes naturally [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Altered Mental States, Getting Together, M/M, Marijuana, Mind/Mood Altering Substances, Shower Sex, Stoned Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-02
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-14 06:50:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1256851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kitana/pseuds/ashley-amelie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matthew is sure he's going to say yes to Alfred. He's already felt the shift in their relationship, a crossing of a bridge that they can't go back from. [direct continuation of 'you taste like honey, honey']</p>
            </blockquote>





	tell me, can i be your honey?

**Author's Note:**

> this won't make a lick of sense if you haven't read 'you taste like honey, honey' ~

Matthew is sure he's going to say yes to Alfred. He really doesn't have a choice in the matter, in a way. He's already felt the shift in their relationship, a crossing of a bridge that they can't go back from, cemented mostly by the mutual decision peel themselves off of the couch and head towards the shower. Followed by the decision to get in said shower together. This is the new part.

The water is a little cooler than Matthew likes for a shower, but Alfred sees to it that he doesn't mind it, warm hands soon wet and slip-sliding over his skin. Part of Matthew knows he's pushing himself into Alfred, tilting his head up to kiss-claim-kiss that plush American mouth, because he's still high, his body still buzzing and hypersensitive and wanting. Another part of him knows he would've done this anyway, if offered, because Alfred's undivided attention is like a little hit of heroin; each time he craves just a bit more.

Matt gets lost in Alfred's kisses -- or maybe it's Alfred getting lost in his -- and his desire to ask the blonde nation _why? why now?_ swirls down the drain alongside the clear water cascading over them. One arm thrown around Alfred's shoulder and the other wrapped loosely around his waist, Matthew lets Al slowly, carefully, push him up against the slippery shower wall. Al's cock presses hard, hot, slick against his own and Matt shivers, squirming, tilting his head so Alfred can leave sucking kisses all along his throat.

They're pressed as flush together as they can be, but apparently that's not enough because Alfred pulls one of his hands away from the shower wall, instead sliding it down to grip Matt's thigh. "Put your leg around my waist," he murmurs, bite-licking at the juncture of Matthew's neck and shoulder.

The notion of safety is secondary, possibly tertiary, in Matt's mind but it's there all the same, even when Alfred rolls his hips as incentive and a jolt of lust sends the rest of his thoughts fluttering away like petals in the wind. "You're coming with me if I fall," he groans, knowing his threat's failed long before Alfred's husky chuckle confirms it.

Matthew has to go to his tip-toes to get his leg high enough but just the way Al grips his thigh tighter, steadying him with just a fraction of his strength, makes it worth it. It’s even more worth it when they really find a rhythm, cocks trapped slick between their bellies and each other, grinding, sliding, and Matt catches himself thinking, trembling, cock throbbing more at the thought, _god, is this how you would fuck me if I let you?_

Because that’s something he hasn’t done with Al; Alfred never asked, Matthew never offered. It wasn’t even a thing he thought hard about until now and now that he’s thinking on it, it’s sounding less and less like a taboo and more like a good idea. A great idea, because Alfred’s cock is thick and wide, and if he thinks about how it’s really _really_ similar to his own—Matt’s dizzy thoughts are shot through by Alfred’s hips stuttering and pulsing against his own, sudden warmth splashing across his belly, and Al moaning desperately in his ear, _christ, Matty, I’ll fuck you, yeah, however you want_ —

Matt’s body acts before his mind can catch up, pleasure radiating through him hollowly, only partially satisfying as his train of thought derails into a multi-car pileup.  “Oh my god, I can’t believe I wasn’t just thinking that,” he gasps out as soon as he’s caught his breath, shaking, face heating up with embarrassment. Matthew would like to think he still has some shame at this late date, even with the obscene position he's let Alfred contort him into.

"It was really hot, though?" Alfred offers unhelpfully, grinning, easing Matt's leg back down. "Aw, you're blushing!"

"Oh my god," Matthew simply says again, attempting to unwind himself from around the blonde nation and avoid his eyes at the same time. "Let's just get out."

Alfred mock pouts, "Fine."

He hangs back to let Al go first; in following, Matthew finds the water uncomfortably tepid as he soaps and rinses himself clean. He feels more alert than he has been in -- how long has it been? hours? -- but still slow, wobbly, hyperaware and itching for touch. As he paws around Alfred's bathroom for a towel, Matthew becomes aware of a dim ache, a nervous, excited confusion settling in his chest. There's also the dim ache in his balls, reminding him of how close he'd come to having another fantastic orgasm.

Uncertain with what to do with the former, he chooses to focus on the latter. He really was so close.

After drying himself and tracking down his glasses, Matthew follows the clumsy _thump-thump_ of Alfred moving around. He comes to the doorway of Alfred's bedroom, _why are you making so much noise?_ poised at the tip of his tongue. It's stalled by another bump and then Alfred popping out of a walk-in closet, clutching a distressingly familiar article of clothing.

"Ha! Here it is!"

His favourite vintage Canadiens jersey that he'd practically given up on finding because it'd been just that long. Thinking back, Matthew remembers that it'd gone missing around the last time he'd had Alfred over for a Canucks game, but he'd thought he'd just been having a rare case of forgetfulness. He's relieved to know that's not the case but--

"Please tell me why you have that, Alfred. _Please_."

"Well, you let me sleep in it one time I was too drunk to see straight at your house and I kinda liked it, so--" Matt's not sure what his face looks like right now, but whatever expression he's wearing makes Alfred's words come out that much faster, "--I was gonna wash it and return it, I swear!"

Staring at Alfred for a long moment, Matthew decides he's not angry. Just bewildered, since he can't imagine what would ever possess him to let Alfred borrow his _vintage_ jersey. He tells Al this as he crosses into the room to pluck his beloved jersey from the other nation's fingertips and pull it over his head. This seems to remind Al that he's still naked too, and a few moments later he's sporting a pair of boxers in his national colours.

Alfred plops down on his own bed and Matt climbs in, letting Al pull him close and tangle their legs together. Matthew adjusts himself so he's comfortable with Alfred resting in the crook of his neck again, breath ghosting over kiss-bruised flesh. He sighs and closes his eyes, listens to Al's breath even out in time to his own. He's on the edge of something -- sleep? meditation? -- when Al's voice filters through his consciousness.

"Are you still... you know?" he hears him say. Matthew's eyes are still shut, but he feels Al's position shift and guesses he's making some sort of accompanying gesture.

"Mmm," Matthew hums, understanding what Alfred's getting at. He doesn't have to think about it. "Yeah, some. Are you?"

"Same, I think." Alfred settles back down, curling himself around the Canadian. He plays with the hem of Matt's jersey, rubbing the soft, worn fabric between his fingers. Pressing his nose to Matthew's throat, fingertips straying from fabric to flesh, he mumbles, "I was serious earlier, you know."

That flip-flopping, anxious confusion resurfaces and, no, Matt's still ready to tackle it yet. So he leans into Al's touch, fits them more snugly together and says into Al's hair, "Sober, remember?"

"I know, I know," comes the reply. Matthew feels Alfred's lips move across his skin, as if he plans to say something else. He waits, one, two beats, but nothing comes.

Hours later, Matthew wakes, unable to remember falling asleep in the first place. The clock on Alfred's nightstand tells him that it's 9PM; the rumble in his stomach tells him that it's been too long since he ate, whatever time it is. Matt attempts to move from the bed yet extrication proves difficult for him; Al's got an iron lock on his waist that gets marginally tighter when he tries to wiggle his way out. Reluctant to wake the blonde, he tries to slip away again.

No dice.

"Al, wake up."

Silence.

"Al, come on, get up."

This earns Matthew a mumble and Al's leg shifting against his own. He blows out a breath that ruffles Al's hair, mildly annoyed. His stomach pipes up again in protest and so, an idea coming to mind, Matt does the next best thing. He positions himself as closely as he can to Alfred's ear and says, "Alfred, pancakes~."

Alfred abruptly sits up, narrowly missing a bumping of heads with Matt on the way up. "Where!?" he exclaims, blinking away remnants of sleep.

Matt uses this as his chance to slide out of bed. "I just made that up to wake you up, but," he starts, stretching up on the balls of his feet, arms extended overhead. American predictable unpredictability has its perks. He settles with a smile, moving towards the doorway as Al gropes in the dimness for Texas. "I think I'll make some after all."

He makes a beeline for Alfred's kitchen, backtracking through the living room. Netherlands' leftover brownies are sitting out on the couch-table where Al left them; after brief hesitation, Matthew picks up the plate and takes them into the kitchen with him. There's a moment where, while he puts the brownies away, he considers why Netherlands would present such a gift to Alfred. He's been on friendly terms with Netherlands for ages and never received anything so...

So odd.

Not that he necessarily wants pot brownies for his birthday. Or doesn't. It's just... _what does it mean?_

Matthew sighs. It's a futile attempt; he's spent his entire life around other countries' and he's found that their actions tend to be beyond him at the best of times. Not to mention that he shares his border with America, the king of incomprehensible himself.... who is being more incomprehensible than usual tonight. Now that Matt's sober (mostly, he's still getting lost in his own thoughts way too easily), all he can think about are the events of the last few hours.

_Can we do this more?_

_I guess, yeah._

_I was serious, you know._

Alfred's words, as lazy and stoner-thick as they were, bounce around in his head relentlessly. He's trying to take those words with the grain of salt they deserve, but he can't shake the feeling -- Matthew hesitates to call it what it really is, giddiness -- that's worming its way through him.

Rubbing his belly to appease its sudden grumbling, Matthew sets himself to rifling through Alfred's pantry for pancake ingredients. He's first met with an array of 'instant' items: rice, noodles, soup, and -- Matthew picks up the large red box, nose scrunching up in distaste as he skims over the bright lettering printed on it -- pancake mix. Gross. He has to dig deep, but the Canadian does manage to liberate plain baking powder and flour from Al's cupboards.

A quick fridge check reveals the rest of the ingredients Matthew needs and he sets them on the kitchen counter, followed by a bowl and spoon. The motions of mixing and measuring soothe Matt's wired nerves; he moves effortlessly between counter and stove, getting the pan ready, pulling out plates. In between, Matt pauses at the sink to rinse messy dishes clean. He's so into it that he jumps, startled, when Alfred makes his presence known by wrapping strong arms about his waist and plopping his chin on the Canadian's shoulder.

"Hey, smells awesome in here," Al says in his ear affectionately. Matthew can hear a note of mirth in his voice; he flicks water over his shoulder at Alfred in response.

"I hate when you sneak up on me," he says, but makes no attempt to pull out of the blonde's embrace.

Al squeezes him apologetically, the warmth of his bare chest seeping through Matt's jersey. "Sorry, forgot."

Alfred lingers over Matt, watching over his shoulder, as he rinses up the last measuring cup. When Matthew tries to pull away to tend to the stove, Al stills him briefly, just long enough to press a soft kiss behind his ear. Flushing, a shiver skipping up his spine, Matthew rounds on the American, hands balled up.

"What is your deal!?" Matthew's voice goes up in pitch at the end; it's not a yell by anyone's standards but his own. He wills himself to hold Al's gaze, cheeks burning in embarrassed frustration.

All innocence, Alfred cocks his head to one side, raising his eyebrow. "What? I can't do that?"

"Yes! No! You know what I mean!" Al's lips start to curve in a wide smile at Matt; he's flustered now to the point of trembling. "Alfred, _don't laugh!_ " He looks away eventually, lowers his voice. "I'm serious, what's gotten into you?"

Alfred opens his mouth and an angry beep comes out in place of words. "Oh no, the pan!" Matthew starts, whirling towards the stove where wisps of smoke are starting to thicken. He turns the burner off and flicks on the overhead fans; the smoke detector beeps several more times before Al manages to shut it up.

With the smoke clearing, Matthew lets out a long-suffering sigh. "These last ones are burnt."

Al sits down at the kitchen table, curiously quiet as Matt tosses the burnt pancakes in the trash. The silence stretches on through Matthew splitting the remaining pancakes between two plates; on through Matthew placing butter and syrup on the table and sliding a plate in front of Alfred. He takes a seat across from Al but doesn't look at him. He gets through a mouthful of pancakes before the silence snaps.

"I only figured it out recently."

Matthew continues eating, mute. He feels Alfred's eyes on him, refuses to acknowledge the blonde just yet. Halfway through his plate, he finally looks up, licks sticky lips and says, "Figured out what?"

"That I want to... I don't know how to describe it," Al shrugs, stuffs a forkful of syrup-laden pancake in his mouth. Now he's the one with a blush dusting his nose. "I wanna be near you more."

"Is that why you invited me over?"

Alfred scratches his cheek, talking through a full mouth. "Kinda. Yeah."

Matthew thinks that's the end of it, but Alfred swallows and keeps going, trying to explain himself between bites. Stumbling over words, making fork gestures, Al rambles for some time before Matthew interrupts him with the call of his name.

"Do you ever feel like...," Matthew trails off, reminded of the blurring he felt earlier. Feels still. He searches for the right words to match that feeling, half-certain Alfred will laugh at him like he usually does. "Like you can feel me? Inside of yourself, I mean."

"Hmm." Al licks his fork, sets it down. Closes his eyes in thought and, to Matt's surprise, relief, doesn't laugh. When he opens his eyes again, moments later, he says, "Is that how you feel, Matt?"

"I asked you first," the Canadian huffs, blowing out a breath that makes his curl wobble.

Alfred immediately puts his hands up in a placating motion, flashing Matthew a small grin. "Okay, okay." Then, "I think so, yeah. I guess that's why."

Matthew makes a noise of understanding, pushing away from the table as he does so. He picks up their empty plates takes them to the sink, quietly rinsing them clean of syrup and crumbs.

Frowning, Alfred pushes away from the table as well. "Matty?"

"Yes." It's not a question.

"Huh?"

"I said yes," Matt repeats, drying his hands and turning back to face the blonde nation.

"I heard you the first time," Alfred says, pulling a face like Matthew's being purposefully obtuse. "Yes what?"

Resisting the urge to throw something at him, Matthew instead closes the distance between himself and Al, pressing himself into the blonde's arms. He seals their lips together before Alfred can cluelessly ask _what?_ again, a tendril of smugness uncoiling in his chest at the breathless _oh_ that follows shortly after their mouths part.

"So... I can do that whenever I want?"

Matthew smiles, pecks Alfred on the cheek this time. "Within reason."

Later, Matt finds himself back where he started, on Alfred's couch with Alfred curled around him, one of his blockbusters playing on the screen in the background. It's sometime past midnight, the latest Matthew's been up in a while. Al kisses the back of his neck when there's a lull in the action, threading their legs together. He lies like that, floating between wakefulness and slumber, until the music of the movie's ending credits and Al's yawn brings him back to full alertness.

Alfred disconnects from Matt to stretch, then relaxes back against him. "Doing anything tomorrow?"

Matthew takes a moment to think about his schedule. "Not particularly, no."

"Wanna go out?" When Matthew's answer isn't immediately forthcoming, Al adds, "I know an awesome ice cream place?"

"Really?" Matthew rolls over to face Alfred with a smile and, taking a page from America's playbook, says, "Deal."

 


End file.
